A Cosy Christmas in Cornwall. Jane Linfoot

completely cool. ‘In which case, you’ll have to find a different hot tub somewhere else. This one is only available for non-naked guests.’

      ‘Fine, no need to get your Speedos in a twist.’ It’s rare for Miranda to look like she’s beaten. But behind the steam clouds, beyond the two angry red circles on her cheeks, she’s as deflated as a popped balloon because she’s offered Bill her palmful of goodies and he’s flatly refused to eat out of it. And I’ve never heard her sound snappy before. She’s holding her hand out. ‘I take it you provide endless supplies of fluffy towels? In which case, please would you get us some. Unless you’d rather we came inside as we are?’

      At which point, my hopes for Christmas take another nose dive.

      All out war between Bill and Miranda won’t be pretty. It wasn’t even on my list of stuff to worry about. But realistically, if Bill’s taken five minutes to fall out with Miranda who is easy, what the hell is going to happen when Libby’s sleigh slides into town?

       Saturday

       14th December

       9.

       Happy landings

      With everything there is to do in the castle, and Libby arriving tomorrow evening – pause for a silent scream at that – when I wake up early on Saturday morning there’s so much adrenalin pounding through my system it’s impossible to stay in bed. As I get dressed Merwyn is giving me his ‘just no, totally no’ look from the comfort of his squishy red velvet sleeping cushion. He is obviously bullshitting because even though I set off without him he still reaches the bottom of the stairs before I do. We’re even more wide awake after our scamper along the beach by phone-light. The wind is icy, but the sound of the waves pounding and the frothy water rushing up over the sand and onto our feet seems so much louder in the dark than it does in the day.

      Whatever Bill claimed about his dad’s breakfast habits, when we get back to the kitchen the toasters are full and there’s a tall man in orange woven Aztec joggers watching toast on the Aga top too. Then as he turns to grin at me his smile is a livelier, more lived-in version of Bill’s, and I get the full effect of his long straggly hair and the two dangling beaded braids that swing around as he moves his head.

      He’s straight in with the introductions. ‘Hi, I’m Keith, better known as Keef the reef, or Bill’s dad. And these …’ He waves a hand at the crowd around the table who look like they all shopped at the same place as him when they bought their clothes thirty years ago. ‘… are Rip, Brian, Bede, Taj and Slater, my crewmates from the Surf ’til we die club.’

      I’m blinking at silver ponytails and grey grizzly beards of all lengths from stubble to full and bushy, taking in lashings of thong necklaces and shell bracelets, faded ripped denim as weathered as their faces. From the tangles of their hair I’d say none of them visit the barbers except to buy salt spray.

      Bill raises an eyebrow beyond the kitchen island. ‘The name’s ironic, obviously they’ll never die, because they’re way too busy rocking their hang fives and helicopters and riding their party waves.’ There’s an amused twist to his lips. ‘He looks nothing like me, that’s because he’s adopted.’

      My brows are knitting together. ‘Really?’

      Keith’s face crinkles into a grin. ‘The first rule of the castle – never believe Bill’s bollocks. Toast, Ivy?’ The cuffs on his faded peach Rip Curl sweatshirt are hanging in shreds as he hands me a plate and two perfectly browned slices. ‘We’ll finish our coffee then we’re all yours.’